


Flame Body

by Fiction_Over_Fact



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pokemon Fusion, Curtain Fic, Established Relationship, Fluff without Plot, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 05:47:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16655371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiction_Over_Fact/pseuds/Fiction_Over_Fact
Summary: Madara climbs a mountain, starts a fight and eats breakfast. All around, it's a pretty good morning.





	Flame Body

**Author's Note:**

> This isn’t the Pokemon fic I mentioned working on in the notes for The Properly Scholarly Attitude but it’s what happened when I tried to rewrite the beginning of that fic and failed to figure out how to get to the actual plot. **For the third time.**  
>  Instead this is just...a cotton ball made of words. 
> 
> Title is from the Pokemon ability where a fire Pokemon can occasionally inflict burn on its opponent when they do a physical attack on it.
> 
> * **Edited:** Now with hopefully less typos, roughly 80 more words and substantially less italics because I let grammarly look at it and it ate my formatting. Rude.

Technically, the caldera of an extinct super volcano wasn’t a bad place to build a Poke’mon League.

It was difficult to get to, imposing, dramatic—all very important things for the Poke’mon League to be. They couldn’t have just anyone wandering by, demanding fights and ignoring procedure. The challenge of trainers making their way through caves and up the mountain was important--in both the journey's significance and as a deterrent for the under-qualified--but they’d also chosen it for the intimidation factor.

Leagues were about skill but there was also an undeniable level of showmanship necessitated by being the best in the world.

People expected certain things that high up the ladder.

Originally, Madara had thought it was a good choice. He'd helped make it, of course he'd thought that. It was cool to live in what had once been a volcano after all, and his Poke’mon loved it even though there wasn’t any lava anymore.

The problem was that now it was winter, which meant it was actually, literally _cool_ to live in what had once been a volcano.

Madara shivers, teeth clenched tight to stop them from chattering clear through his tongue. The cold mountain wind pierces his coat pockets, intent on honing in on his poor, vulnerable fingers.

For a moment, he thinks fondly of his gloves, stupidly forgotten back on Izuna's kitchen counter in his earlier rush. His brother will mock him for that later, he knows, but it's not like he's any better when it comes to Touka.

He kicks at the bottom of the door in front of him, unwilling to take his hands out of his pockets to use his key.

There’s no response. Just like there wasn’t the last three times he knocked.

Madara growls to himself, the sound disappearing into the thick, woolly folds of his scarf. Once Tobirama opens that door he’s a dead man, Hashirama’s pout and his own inevitable prison sentence be damned.

Madara wakes up early and walks ten minutes up a fucking _mountain_ in the snow to eat breakfast with the pale bastard before work and he won’t even open the door?

The fucking _nerve_.

His flaring temper actually makes him feel a bit warmer, which is nice, even though it probably says bad things about his health.

Thankfully, the door swings open before he can think much about it.

Madara feels the wave of warm air hit him and pushes his way in before he even sees Tobirama, elbowing the door shut behind him. It’s too damn cold for manners, especially when the Senju had rudely left him on the doorstep for so long.

And really, Madara wasn’t much for manners at any time, no matter the weather.

He’s pulling off his scarf and hat, wind whipping on the other side of the firmly shut door and heat already seeping into his bones, when he hears a throat clear just to his side.

Madara cracks an eye open, intending to glare and snap at his attempted murderer-via-negligence.

There's nothing there.

He blinks, startled before his brain defrosts a little more and he looks closer to the ground. Large red eyes blink back at him, set over a smile that nearly sends his spine back to shivering.

“Hello, Lila.”

Madara might not be much for manners but he isn't stupid enough to piss off a ghost Pokemon, thank you very much. Especially one trained by a man like Tobirama.

The Gengar grins at him and gives him a half salute—her short arms not long enough for a proper one—before she melts into the floor, off to do...whatever it was ghost Pokemon did.

Honestly, Madara generally tries to avoid thinking about it.

“You didn’t thank her,” Tobirama calls from the kitchen, his voice carrying over the hum of the heater and the distant sound of something sizzling. Whatever it is, the smell makes Madara’s mouth water. “You should reconsider where you sleep tonight.”

He snaps his mouth shut and throws a glare at the wall separating them before roughly hanging up his hat. One of Tobirama’s falls to the ground with a soft thud and Madara takes a vindictive pleasure in leaving it there.

“You tried to give me hypothermia, you don’t get to lecture me on manners,” he calls back, kicking off one of his boots. He balances awkwardly on one foot as he shakes the second one off, unwilling to further ruin his morning by ending up with wet socks. “Besides, you won’t protect me from her?”

There’s a short but heavy silence from the kitchen, during which Madara can damn near hear Tobirama rolling his eyes.

“Uchiha, if I wanted you dead there would be far more entertaining ways to make it happen,” comes the retort, that sharp but fond tone Madara has grown used to hearing this last year. Then, slowly and with feigned consideration: “I'll have to think about it. You have the rest of the day to make a case for yourself.”

Madara pauses in the middle of taking off his second coat, staring down at his own sock-clad feet and resisting the urge to smile. He’d missed bickering with Tobirama these last few days. It had been nice to visit his family with Izuna but that wasn’t really home anymore, not the way it once was.

“I don’t like it when you say things like that,” he announces, hanging his coat up on the rack, snow already starting to melt off it in the warmth of the apartment. He pads across the living room floor and peeks into the kitchen, then settles against the frame of the archway, taking in the sight he’s met with.

The kitchen is bright and warm, despite the early hour. It’s mostly empty of Pokemon for once as well, only his Talonflame roosting atop the fridge, fast asleep. Prepared, no doubt, to beg for some of their food once its ready.

Tobirama stands at the stove, looking enviously warm in a thick knit sweater. The collar is visibly lopsided—evidence of Hashirama’s trademark clumsiness. Madara doesn’t mind his friend's incompetence for once though, not when it leaves a stretch of pale skin for him to eye, along with the broad span of Tobirama’s shoulders and the trimness of his waist and hips.

Madara’s hands twitch with the urge to _grab_ and _squeeze_.

He clears his throat instead, not quite ready to give up the fight. “I don’t like it when you say things like that,” he repeats, “especially when you’re about to feed me. Are you doing something to my breakfast, Senju?”

Tobirama shakes his head and his shoulders jostle with something that might be a laugh but he doesn’t turn around, still staring down into the skillet. “If I didn’t want you to eat it I wouldn’t have wasted my time cooking in the first place.”

He flips whatever he’s cooking and it crackles pleasantly.

Madara’s stomach growls—reminding him that he collapsed on Izuna’s couch last night without dinner—but he ignores it and snorts in faux derision. “Waste your time? You want your husband to starve?”

Tobirama actually laughs then, the sound quiet but infinitely dear. He looks over his shoulder at Madara, the hint of a smile playing at his lips. “Well, perhaps it wouldn’t be such a waste if my husband didn’t accuse me of terrible things whenever I try to cook for him.”

There are fading pillow creases on his cheek and his eyes are dark and fond, not quite half-lidded. There's a lazy air to him despite his words, the kind Madara is usually only lucky enough to see when they first wake up. It's a special thing for him, to see Tobirama so uncharacteristically soft, for Madara's eyes only.

Unable to resist Madara edges up behind him and fits himself to Tobirama’s back, hooking his chin over his shoulder. Tobirama leans into it, tilting the sleep warm skin of his cheek into Madara's temple.

“I missed you and your failed attempts at poisoning me,” Madara mutters, pressing the words into Tobirama's neck. He can smell his hair there, the last remnants of shampoo leaving it vaguely minty, the sharp edges of it just blunt enough to be comforting.

Tobirama sighs, content, and pushes closer. “How dare you accuse me of failure."

  
Miraculously, their breakfast does not burn.

They are, however, late for work.

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo...hopefully that was cute and not awkward? I really can't tell. Anyway, my fluff and pretty much nothing else fics tend to go kinda... meh but here it is regardless. Practice!
> 
> My tumblr is fiction-over-facts, if that's your kind of thing? 
> 
> And of course feel free to tell me about typos!


End file.
